There’s an old expression that forewarns you should never meet your heroes. Apparently, the American producer Allan Carr coined it and I imagine he’s met quite a few pop-culture idols. The feeling is that, invariably, these people let you down. They turn from enigmatic strongmen to mere mortals in a matter of minutes. It’s impossible to live up to the expectations; the image you’ve already formulated in your head.
I kind of felt like that with Harry Potter, although I’ve never met Radcliffe in real life. Stick with me. That was the first book that I remember visualising—conjuring, if you will—my own characters and when the inaugural film came out four years later, Harry wasn’t at all like I’d imagined. Maybe that’s why I hate fantasy? Coincidently, Cedric Diggory, who showed up a couple of films later, was played by the amiable R-Patz and packed all the stuff to set my teenage soul on fire.
The point is, I think Carr was onto something. Recently, one of my favorite female journalists, who shall remain nameless, did an AMA on Instagram. A fan asked how she kept the spark alive in her marriage, she replied “I’ve never farted in front of him.” I didn’t even have to meet her, she’d already disappointed me. I mean, really? I’m not letting farts rip every minute in front of Ollie, but I’m a human. Actually, I’m the worst kind of human, a lactose intolerant human. Unfortunately, Ollie has had to put up with what he jokingly describes as, in a very un-PC way, Auschwitz. On the occasions that I do eat too much dairy, it ain’t pretty. He complains, but he loves me and that’s part of the deal. Sorry babe.
Anyway, enough of the gross stuff. The second part that broke my heart was the pronoun. I've never farted in front of him. Is it OK for him to fart? Are we still trying to exist as a weird 1950s nuclear family? That one sentence instantly made me feel like she was embarrassed of something that is inherently human and that her job was to keep the husband interested in her at all costs. I haven’t held in a fart for so long, but I remember doing it on the occasional (okay, regular) one-night stands I had and it was kinda painful. You get cramps, and weird noises. Is your husband that amazing that his happiness comes at your expense? Perhaps I’m reading into it. Actually, I know I’m reading into it. Sorry, you fart in private if you want to.
On the flip side, I’ve met some famous people who turned out to be cooler than I’d ever imagined. When I was at uni, I unknowingly became friends with Hugo Weaving’s son. He was quiet but friendly and we just clicked. He also never let me know that his dad was Agent fucking Smith. For one assignment, we had to reshoot a scene from the Maltese Falcon and we decided to do it at one of his family's properties in Paddington. I probably should’ve cottoned on then at the mention of multiple homes. We turned up and started prepping. Just imagine all the disarray a student film brings packed into a multi-million-dollar abode. I was gaffer taping a makeshift backdrop to the roof when Sir Weaving walked in. I was stunned. We were introduced and I, frozen in awe, still had my arm outstretched holding the fabric to the wall. “Don’t ruin my fucking house,” he quipped. I laughed, like really laughed, and he loved having an audience. He sat for a while and talked to some gawky twentysomethings and he was more amazing than anything I could’ve ever dreamt up in my head.
I guess it’s similar to Bill Murray turning up to random house parties or, well, he’s the only one I can think of right now but I’m sure there’s more. I know it’s a lot of pressure to live up to expectations. Actually, the expectations are likely the problem. But, we’re plebs, you’re the celeb, make us happy we met you.
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